


Defined Parameters

by Amelior8or



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Crossover, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Consent, Gift Fic, Hate Sex, Holodeck Sex, Holodecks/Holosuites, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Power Dynamics, Turkish Oil Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:34:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26669026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelior8or/pseuds/Amelior8or
Summary: Harry is a security officer on a ship stuck in the far end of the Delta Quadrant. Malfoy is the Maquis First Officer they tentatively have an alliance with. If they're going to spend the next 70,000 lightyears together, they need to define the parameters of their power. They just so happen to define it on the Holodeck, during a bout of Turkish oil wrestling.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 10
Kudos: 58
Collections: A Bouquet for a Bird





	Defined Parameters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kristinabird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kristinabird/gifts).



> For Kristinabird, as a little something to brighten your day!
> 
> With a massive thank you to [ Etalice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etalice/pseuds/Etalice) for the beta, [ Spookywoods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookywoods/pseuds/spookywoods) for the extensive discussion on the logistics of Holodeck sex, and [ Andithiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andithiel/pseuds/Andithiel) for helping maintain the accuracy of the whole oil wrestling thing.

In the Holodeck, Harry let the weight of his body slam the both of them into the mats. He took the force of the landing on his shoulder, twisting his head to the side to avoid a mouthful of white-blond hair. He yanked his arm so that the crook of his elbow pressed _hard_ against the tendons of a pale neck.

“I’m _watching_ you, Malfoy,” he hissed. “Play nice all you want. I know you’re a threat to this ship.”

Malfoy gave a halfway wheezing huff of laughter, then slammed his fist down hard into the crux between Harry’s legs. Harry’s training let him catalogue the injury, noting that it was technically an impact to his pelvic girdle. Functionally, though, it was a _punch in his fucking balls_ . The sharp agony of it snapped along his nerves, and Harry couldn’t stop his recoil, unable to struggle and blinking through tears as Malfoy rolled away into a defensive crouch. Of _course,_ the bloody prick wouldn’t fight with any sense of decency.

“It’s _First Officer_ Malfoy to you, Potter,” he said, rubbing at his neck. “All part of the deal your Captain Granger made when we all got shunted over to the arse end of the Delta Quadrant.”

Harry nearly snarled. He hoped Malfoy’s skin would bruise, a harsh blue ring around his neck that would stay visible above the flash of Command gold.

He pushed up to his hands and knees, as far as he could manage without letting a sharp whine into his breath. “You shouldn’t even touch a Starfleet uniform. You gave up that right when you dropped out of Hogwarts Academy to become Maquis!”

“Oh, but Potter,” Malfoy said, spreading his bare arms. “Neither of us are wearing a uniform right now. Isn’t that the point of this _friendly_ sparring match?”

They both knew it wasn’t. The point had been for Harry to make clear that, as Security Officer, he wouldn’t let someone like Malfoy threaten his ship. The point was to make it clear to Malfoy that he would do whatever it’d take to protect his people. The _point_ was to follow through on the unspoken agreement he and Malfoy have observed during every single encounter since their Academy days: if the two of them were alone in the same room together, neither were leaving until one was a clear conqueror.

And so when Harry invited First Officer Malfoy over to the Holodeck for a sparring match, they both knew why. Defense was Harry’s domain, the Holodeck program his own special creation. When you walked in, it automatically generated a random combat arena — from Medieval Earth knights at a joust to a Klingon bat’leth training yard to a Vulcan _kal-if-fee_ complete with an endless supply of _lirpa_. Harry had trained with them all, excelled at them all, and the fact that Malfoy was entering at a disadvantage was no secret to either of them.

This time, it spat them out in an Old Earth Turkish wrestling ring, with nothing but black kisbet to change into and more than a dozen large metal tureens of olive oil surrounding them.

“It stopped being _friendly_ when you punched me in the balls,” Harry snapped. He could stand now, but the throbbing pull of his groin meant he’d be unable to walk with any dignity for a long while yet. “Don’t even pretend to be surprised that it was against the rules.” He shifted enough to make it seem as if getting his back against the near wall was only happenstance. It wasn’t strategically sound, but it at least gave him fortification.

Malfoy stood waiting for Harry to recover, unimpressed, slick arms folded across his bare chest. Lithe as he was, Harry could still barely see the lines of any bones under his skin; Malfoy was all taut, corded muscle, coiled like a spring around a long, lean frame. “I figured I would stop fighting fair when you gave the command to lock the Holodeck doors,” he said. “I bet there’s even an order that absolutely no recordings be made of what happens here today.”

“There’s nothing to record,” Harry said, weighing the odds of Malfoy attacking. He’d be able to fight, if he needed to. He’d done so before, with worse injuries and deadlier opponents — it’s what Dumbledore had trained him for. It’s how he knew he’d die someday, fighting through the pain to be the hero everyone needed. But the sear of pain that lanced through him with every shift of his pelvis made it clear that fighting right now wouldn’t be _pleasant_. He gritted his teeth. “We’re just sparring.”

Malfoy snorted, infuriatingly elegant. “Of course.” He spun around and strode on bare, bony feet to the medic station on the far wall and began rooting around. “The sort of sparring that has nothing to do with you intimidating me, as an act of intense loyalty to your very clever Captain.” He came back and tossed a handheld Regenerator at Harry, who snatched it with lightning reflexes, despite the sharp ache in his pelvis the stretch caused.

Then Malfoy stepped right into Harry’s space, close enough that Harry needed to tilt up to look him in the eye, and said, “you’ll need to work harder than that to get me at your mercy, Potter.” He gestured at the Regenerator in Harry’s hand. “Go on, there, don’t be shy. Heal yourself up. It’s nothing I’m not already familiar with. Remember, our wrestling arena hadn’t come with change rooms.”

It hadn’t. The Holodeck doors had locked behind them with a quiet _whirr_ , and the two of them had been left staring each other down. There were no change rooms, no privacy screens, no convenient nooks. And no way to oil wrestle while still wearing Starfleet uniforms.

Malfoy had raised a brow. “Scared, Potter?”

“You _wish_ ,” Harry had snapped and reached for the hem of his uniform shirt.

It was absolutely silent, other than the rustle of fabric, but it hadn’t _felt_ silent. It had felt like roaring, the way neither of them looked away as they stripped off shirts, boots, socks. It had felt like the tuning of a symphony, the way Malfoy’s mercury grey eyes stared into his as they both undid their pants and let them drop to the floor. It had felt like the snap of an ion storm, the way they both pulled off the last of their clothes and stood in front of each other, bare and unyielding.

Harry _refused_ to let his eyes waver, blink, stray. And yet, he somehow knew every line and inch of Malfoy’s body, had it somehow seared into his brain with more permanence than the heat death of the universe.

It had felt like the rumble of a pending avalanche, the way Malfoy pulled the tight black kisbet over the jutting bones of his hips while Harry tried to follow suit. It had felt like the gasp of a star collapsing into a black hole, the way Malfoy strode over to one of the tureens, picked one up, tilted it over his body, and let the oil slide along his sharp shoulders, his sternum, and down his shins to the soles of his feet. The oil pressed the kisbet even closer to Malfoy’s skin and glistened through the fine golden hairs that dusted his chest.

Malfoy had put the tureen down and straightened.

“Well, Potter?” he had said. “Show me how great you really are.”

Harry didn’t remember what moves he used as they wrestled. He didn’t even really remember covering himself in oil -- _Malfoy’s breaking the rules_ , he thought wildly, furiously, _ceremony states that we were supposed to oil each other_ . He could, if he thought about it, remember the drive to beat Malfoy, to specifically _not lose_ to Malfoy, to prove himself as someone Malfoy should surrender to. But what he did remember with sharp crystal clarity was the feel of Malfoy’s warm skin as it pressed against his thigh, his ribs, his cheek. He remembered the way his hands skimmed along the knobs of Malfoy’s spine, the way Malfoy’s breath heated the hair behind his ear.

What he would always remember, every single day of this possibly endless journey across the stars, was the way Malfoy’s hand felt as it slipped past the waistline of his kisbet and then down. How Malfoy’s fingers, slender and slick, skimmed past the curve of his arse and even further, pressing their bodies so close that Harry could place Malfoy’s every scar by touch alone.

It was a regulation move, what Malfoy did. But it made the breath in Harry’s lungs feel rampant, made the burn in his blood feel unchecked and egregious.

So Harry had slammed them against the mats and tried to choke Malfoy, and got a punch in the balls for his efforts.

Harry had flinched, during the wrestle. He had flinched _first_ , which was unacceptable. He refused to flinch now, staring down Malfoy while he used a Regenerator on his testicles for an injury that _Malfoy put there in the first place_. 

“Is this what you Maquis do for fun?” Harry asked. He forcefully swallowed down the sigh of relief as the pain faded into a soft ache and then into nothingness. “Take breaks from mass genocide to aggravate the people forced to be around you?”

“I may be a genocidal Maquis, Potter,” Malfoy said, “but I’m still your commanding officer. If I really felt like aggravating you, I could ask Granger to put you on my personal security detail, and you’d have to follow me day and night. I might just do so anyways. It might help you learn to respect my authority.”

Two decades ago, the Maquis were a different kind of rebel force. The kind that, historically, had the sort of ideals Harry might even agree with, or willingly make an alliance with while stranded in the Delta Quadrant. But two decades ago, Admiral Voldemort took over the Maquis.

Voldemort, who calmly destroyed a ship carrying Harry’s parents, Neville’s parents, and thousands of other Starfleet officers, just to make a political statement about the ideals _his_ Maquis would represent. After that, it was a campaign for the “genetic purity” of spacefaring, and soon Voldemort’s black mark of a fleet, curling in formation like a giant snake amongst the stars, became the symbol of everything Starfleet fought against.

And it was _those_ Maquis that Hermione made an alliance with.

“If you think I’m ever going to respect your _authority_ , you’re dead wrong,” Harry snapped.

“Oh, I know,” Malfoy said. His face was sharp and his amusement was sharp, but the overall effect was disconcertingly soft. “I’m well aware that I’ll only ever be your First Officer in name only. I know that, more than anything, you’d rather have me on my knees than giving you orders.”

Harry’s eyes dragged down to Malfoy’s lips, despite every inch of Harry’s will fighting against it, and he dragged them back up again the instant he had control over the way his body responded to the words _on my knees_ dropping from Malfoy’s mouth. But it was too late. Malfoy had seen, and those lips had tilted upward in a pleasantly surprised and calculating smile.

“That’s what you wanted when you brought me here, wasn’t it?” Malfoy said. He pressed the palm of his hand into the wall beside Harry’s head, close enough for the smell of olive oil and skin to fill every breath Harry took. “To make me submit? Fall back into the intimidation pranks we used to play on each other at Hogwarts? Haven’t you played enough big boy war games to learn that power doesn’t always belong to the one who huffs and puffs the most? We’re both different from when we were at the Academy, Potter. That’s not how power works out in the deep dark depths of space.”

Harry swallowed at the heat that burned under his skin. It started at his throat and fluttered past his constricted lungs, before drifting further, deeper down. He huffed and flicked his fingers in the tiny scrap of space between them. “ _This_ is not how you convince me to obey you as a ranking officer, either.”

“Then let me show you,” Malfoy murmured. He leaned deep into Harry’s space “Let me show you exactly how I can maintain Command when I’m _on my knees_.”

And with that, Malfoy sank down with the grace of a falling feather, his back straight and his lips still tilted into a cocksure smirk.

He was _gorgeous_ like that, glistening and pale, long lashes brushing the soft blush of his cheeks. He was sinful like that, a breath away from the fabric of Harry’s kisbet, chin tilted with a confidence that burned against the significance of the position he was in.

“You plan to maintain your authority like this?” Harry asked, trying to ignore the shameless display his kisbet, unable to hide where the flush of heat in his body had settled. Trying to not betray what the sight of Malfoy on his knees did to Harry’s heart and mind and entire understanding of how the two of them were supposed to _work_. “From my perspective, I’m the one looming over you.”

“Take these off,” Malfoy said and then folded his arms behind his back into parade rest, waiting.

“What? No,” Harry snapped, suddenly flushed and wrong-footed. “No, I won’t,”

“Because you won’t obey me?” Malfoy asked. “We both know you _want_ to.”

Harry’s cock stiffened and throbbed, the ache in his groin far different than what it was before — and far, far worse. He tried to ground himself, to press his teeth together, to count to ten in Andorian. But it wasn’t enough to stop the way Malfoy’s command thrummed through his bones. Not enough to stop his body’s heady response to the shape of Malfoy’s body, kneeling at Harry’s feet and absolutely certain of his power. “You’re abusing your power,” he gritted out.

“This isn’t coercion, Potter,” Malfoy said. “You get to choose. I order you to take these off, or I order you to accept my authority and walk away. Simple enough.”

“What kind of orders are those?” Harry snapped. He _couldn’t_ walk away, couldn’t give Malfoy that kind of satisfaction. And he knew exactly what would happen if he obeyed the _other_ order, willingly showing Malfoy the effect this whole mess had on him. He could disobey through restraint, refusing to leave, refusing to pull down his kisbet, refusing to give in to everything Malfoy offered there, on his knees with a smirk on his lips. 

But he knew that if he stayed, there would be no restraint. There never was, between the two of them. This would just be the culmination of a lifetime of confrontations, of contentions. Harry could choose, and whatever choice he made would redefine the parameters of every moment between them for the next 70,000 lightyears.

Harry closed his eyes and chose to stay. 

He couldn’t articulate why, but he knew, in the deepest core of his being, that this was the choice he would have always made. That realisation wasn’t enough to fracture Harry, but it still created fissures, too easy to crack when placed under pressure.

Malfoy watched him. Harry could tell even with his eyes closed. He knew that Malfoy watched him process what this choice would mean, how this choice changed the very orbit the two of them had, circling around each other.

“I can wait here all day,” Malfoy said, “but eventually, you have to choose to follow my orders.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry whispered and pulled down his pants.

Goosebumps immediately covered his thighs as the air touched the exposed skin. His cock was already dripping precome, the pearly line of it stretching down from the rigid tip to hang past Malfoy’s chin. The situation was intoxicating, in a way Harry wasn’t able to put words to, and the heady mix of power and deferral and redefined boundaries made his head feel full of gossamer and sparklers.

“Will you let me suck your cock?” Malfoy asked.

Harry swallowed. “Yes.”

Malfoy waited, then said, “Officer Potter, will you let me suck your cock?”

He didn’t have the breath for it, the courage for it, but he still said, “Yes, sir.”

“ _Perfect_ ,” Malfoy said and took the tip of Harry’s cock into his mouth like it was a delicacy.

The moan that rocked out of Harry’s mouth was deep and damning. He was helpless to it, for all that it was he who stood over Malfoy in the wide, empty Holodeck. Malfoy’s lips slid down his shaft like a match burning down to ash, the flicks of his tongue wreaking carnage in Harry’s soul with ruthless precision.

Harry’s hands scrabbled against the wall behind him for any kind of stability but slid, slick from the oil, weak from the realization that Malfoy’s mouth was steadily ruining him for any other touch he would ever have on his skin again. Harry was gasping, breathless from the pleasure, winded from the awareness that Malfoy on his knees had Harry completely at his mercy.

Malfoy’s back remained straight the entire time, with an easily perfect posture that could only come from a lifetime of formality. His hands never moved, either; everything he did to undo Harry was done with his mouth alone. Harry felt the tip of his cock press deep into the back of Malfoy’s throat, then a swallow, and a tight, hard suck as Malfoy’s lips dragged back up — a vacuum that pulled away with it everything Harry knew of who he was supposed to be.

“Do you remember when we used to chase each other around Hogwarts?” Malfoy said, pulling from the end of Harry’s cock with a soft _pop_. “Pretending we were enemies when the Academy was all of the universe we had really known?”

Harry growled. “We _were_ enemies. You —” he gasped, as Malfoy slid, slow, back onto Harry, curling his tongue through the precome at the slit. “Your family were Maquis loyalists. You dropped out to join —”

“I dropped out to protect my mother,” Malfoy said softly. A quick suck at Harry’s cock again, and then: “I was worried Voldemort would kill her if I didn’t show how loyal I was. He did anyway, though.”

“You… what?” Harry asked, dazed, disoriented at how Malfoy’s tongue tipped back into his slit and curled around the head to tuck under — just a bit — the foreskin. “He threatened your mother? I thought…”

“Thought that I joined for the gleeful opportunity of galaxy-wide murder?” Malfoy asked, lipping at Harry’s balls. The balls that Malfoy had _punched_ , minutes ago. Hours ago? Whole identities ago? “Don’t worry, many do. But just in case, Voldemort collected a whole assortment of incentives, for those supporters who needed a bit more motivation.” Malfoy hummed. “Will you let me finger you?”

“Wha… _what_?” Harry was gasping, adrift in sensation and information and emotions he wasn’t ready to name. He dragged his eyes away from the sight of Malfoy’s lips on his skin to see where Malfoy’s hands were, reaching for a tureen of oil.

“I…” Harry swallowed, searching for anything to anchor him in this moment and to stop him from flying apart at the seams.

“Potter. Look at me.”

Harry did, and let himself stare into those clever grey eyes. They were so calm, offering so much more stability than whatever it was roaring under Harry’s skin. He took a breath and kept staring, until he could see it, the feverish burn deep inside Malfoy’s eyes. What they were doing was capsizing everything for Malfoy, too, taking the familiar and forging it into something molten and new. But Malfoy handled it with poise, with confidence, with authority.

Like a commanding officer should.

“Potter, will you let me finger you?” Malfoy asked.

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, and there was no hesitation in him, anywhere at all.

“Good,” Malfoy said and took Harry’s cock back into his mouth again. This time, Harry also felt the touch of Malfoy’s hands, one bracing against his hip bone, the other sliding along the curve of his arse, an echo of their earlier wrestling. Only this time, Harry wasn’t flinching away.

Malfoy’s fingers were overly slick as they flicked against his arsehole and pressed in, steady, sure. The breach brought back the same roaring feeling from before, the avalanche, the symphony. Harry lost himself to it, the feeling of Malfoy filling him, of lips and tongue and teeth. He let Malfoy mark him, posses him, claim him; he let himself have the first real moment in his life where he could prioritize his pleasure over his obligations, his responsibilities, his burden.

Malfoy pressed into him, consumed him, worshipped him. Harry shivered, and moaned, and gasped.

And then Malfoy found his prostate, and Harry cried out, shameless and loud. He watched as Malfoy pulled off, grinning viciously in triumph.

“You always seemed so untouchable at Hogwarts. So heroic and _burdened_ . Everyone always thought it was your destiny to stop Voldemort,” Malfoy said, dragging the tip of his finger against the nub of Harry’s prostate, over and over again until the electric crackle of it made Harry want to _scream_. “I always thought it was your destiny, too. I occasionally felt pity over the way Admiral Dumbledore took your unwavering courage and groomed you to be Starfleet’s sacrificial lamb.”

“That’s —” Harry gasped. “That wasn’t… no.”

“Yes,” Malfoy said. “It was. But not anymore. Now, we’re in the Delta quadrant, and your destiny is 70,000 lightyears aways. You don’t have to be everyone’s hero any more. Which is why you’re _here_ , letting your Commanding Officer suck your cock until you beg him to let you come.”

Every part of Harry was shaking. His legs, his fingers, his heart. “I… don’t know what I’ll do.”

“Will you let me make you come?” Malfoy asked, a breath away from Harry’s skin.

“Please, Malfoy,” Harry gasped. “Please, _sir_.”

“ _Oh_ , I like that,” Malfoy murmured, and took Harry’s cock straight down to the root.

It was everything. It was too much. The heat of Malfoy’s mouth, the pressure of Malfoy’s fingers, the cluster of revelations casually tossed at Harry’s feet. They could never be what they were, not after this. But they could forge something new, perhaps. Something mighty.

The shout as Harry came was hoarse and halfway sobbing, but Malfoy held him through it and licked him clean after. Harry fought, with every atom of strength left, to not let his legs give out. The fissures beneath his ribs and around his heart had fractured, had splintered the very foundation of his universe. Malfoy stood, calm and composed, and tucked Harry back into his kisbet, carefully and gently, all while Harry tried to remember how to breathe.

“Just so you know,” Malfoy said, flicking his tongue out to catch a drop of Harry’s come on his upper lip. “My ship was full of Maquis double agents. Voldemort found out that Pansy, Blaise, Greg, and I were conspiring to sell out his secrets. It’s why Granger let us join this ship on its slow crawl home.”

Harry’s ears were still ringing from the force of his orgasm, the static of his synapses too slow to fully process Malfoy’s words. He hadn’t even gotten the feeling back in his fingers, and Malfoy was already back in his uniform, breaking regulation by rolling up the sleeves to show the sharp black snake on his skin.

“Voldemort’s last orders for us were to get into a glorified freighter and follow your ship, sending out a long-range message to something called the ‘Caretaker’ in the hopes it would kill you,” Malfoy said. “It was a suicide mission. But it was either that or face down Voldemort’s own private brand of justice for the disloyal. It was an easy choice.”

Malfoy walked up to the Holodeck entrance and rapped on the metal, pausing as it slid open. “So now, both of us are an entire lifetime away from the bastard of a man who defined everything we were supposed to be,” he said. “I guess this is probably as good a time as any to figure out who we want to be during that lifetime.”

Then Malfoy was gone, down the hallway with the soft hydraulic _hiss_ of the Holodeck doors sliding shut behind him.

Harry leaned against the bare wall, breathless and slick, trying to ignore the tremor under his ribs.


End file.
